Longest Night. For winter-loving folk it sings a chorus of skis and hockey. For me, it is Shortest Day, SADS on a stick, jabbing me with icy spears of dread while growling threats of carb cravings and cabin fever that even the writer's cure-all - wine - can't silence. But this year it may be different. And I have my muse to thank.

It was a Sunday morning fight I just didn't need. Morning comes too early anyway, and the battle between my warm cozy nest and the rigid hardwood of a church pew was raging in my head long before Youngest Daughter twirled proudly in her self-made Sunday best: jeans and a T-shirt. Now, I have accepted that my willfull third-born will no longer tolerate the sweet dresses and matched outfits of toddlerhood. Main goal today is to get her to church with a Christian demeanour still intact. The Lord doesn't care how you look as long as you show up, echoes in my head. Jeans I could live with. The shirt, however, was another story - a tiny pink tee with Tootsie candies proclaiming Let's Roll!, guarded defiantly by its eight-year-old owner despite its faded fabric, cracked decal, and seams meant for a torse two sizes smaller. Bravely, I suggest another shirt. Eyes darken and lips extend in a pout that will ease only after someone cries. With a single bead of optimism, I align three lovely shirts on the bed, extolling their virtues as an auctioneer wooes his audience. This one has a butterfly, see? And this one is purple; you love purple. A glimmer of hope, and the pout relaxes. Maybe purple would be okay. It is my favourite colour, and the Advent candles are purple.